


The Cracks in Our Foundation

by schweet_heart



Series: Merlin Fic [110]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Apologies, Awesome Morgana, BAMF Merlin, Blood, Blood and Violence, Bloodletting, Break Up, Canon Era, Character Death, Destruction, Disasters, Emotional Constipation, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Repressed, Established Relationship, F/F, Getting Back Together, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Loss, Loss of Parent(s), M/M, Magic Revealed, Mass Death, Medieval Medicine, Merlin's Magic Revealed, Mistaken Identity, Non-Graphic Violence, Pendragon Sibling Feels, Post-Break Up, Post-Magic Reveal, Presumed Dead, Prophecy, Protective Arthur, Reunions, Secret Relationship, Survivor Guilt, Temporary Character Death, War, Women Being Awesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2019-03-27 08:45:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13877361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schweet_heart/pseuds/schweet_heart
Summary: A sorcerer destroys Camelot while the knights are away on campaign, and Arthur returns to find his home levelled and – worse still - believes Merlin is gone. As he and the few survivors struggle to rebuild, however, Arthur discovers there are more secrets hiding beneath the rubble than he expected, and that even when the worst happens, Merlin will always have his back.Written for Hurt/Comfort Bingo Round 8 February Challenge.





	The Cracks in Our Foundation

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the H/C Bingo prompts:
> 
> 1\. Destruction/natural disasters.  
> 2\. Mistaken identity.  
> 3\. Archaic medical treatment.  
> 4\. Grief (wild card).
> 
> Hey look, guys, I actually finished the thing on time! I apologise for the fact that it's still riddled with errors – I will have to come back and actually edit it later. But deadlines are deadlines ;)

1.

 

 

They had been pulling bodies out of the rubble since dawn.

 

It was grim work, even for men accustomed to handling the dead. The majority of the victims were not soldiers or fighting men but women, children, and the elderly, those who had been left behind in the citadel for safekeeping. Arthur had seen one man, a burly knight, crying like a child as he lifted his wife’s body from the remains of their home, a small girl clinging to his legs with huge, solemn eyes. How she had managed to survive the destruction Arthur didn’t know, but it gave him some small sliver of hope to think that someone had.

 

So many had not.

 

“Sire!” A hoarse shout caught his attention. Leon materialised out of the haze in front of him, coughing as he waved a hand in front of his face to disperse the dust. “Sire, there’s something you need to see.”

 

“Is it—have you found—?”

 

Leon shook his head. “There’s still no sign of your father, or the Lady Morgana,” he said. “But, sire—we found—”

 

Arthur turned away. There was only one other person whose death might cause Leon to look at him like that, and he had already caught sight of the dark hair and ridiculously prominent ears, that one slim hand trailing limply as the body was carried past. 

 

 _Merlin_. 

 

“Where—where was he?” he asked, when he had composed himself. He had guessed, of course, when Merlin hadn’t been there to greet him as soon as they arrived, but he had hoped—

 

“We found him huddled beneath the ruins of the back staircase, my lord,” Leon said, his voice soft. “We think he and some of the other servants were trying to take shelter there when—”

 

Arthur held up a hand to stop him, and he fell silent. Something immense and frightening was fighting to make its way out of Arthur’s throat, a new grief struggling to be felt beneath the numbness of so much exhaustion and loss, but he could not, would not acknowledge it. So many of his people had died here. His father, in all likelihood, was among the dead, along with the woman he had thought of as a sister. This could be only one more body, one more person who had not lived to see the sunrise. If he tried to think of it as anything else, he would be crushed by it, and then he would not be able to keep going. 

 

His people needed him to keep going. 

 

Leon’s hand came to rest on his arm, but Arthur shrugged him off with an angry motion of his shoulders. “Lay him out with the others,” he said, and found he did not recognise the sound of his own voice, cool and distant as it was. “We can see about giving them all a proper burial after we’ve finished searching for survivors.”

 

“Yes, my lord.” Leon hesitated, then said a trifle awkwardly, “I am sorry for your loss, sire. I know that the two of you were very—close.”

 

Close. The way Leon said it made it sound like a euphemism for so much more, and for the first time it occurred to Arthur to wonder just how much the knights knew about his relationship with his manservant. There had never been anything overt, of course—Arthur’s father would never have tolerated it, and Arthur valued Merlin’s friendship too much to risk him in such a way—but he had never striven to conceal the fact that Merlin was his to protect and care for, idiot though he was, or that he would slay to the last man anyone guilty of harming him.

 

Lately, though, it had seemed that the only person in danger of harming Merlin had been Arthur himself, and that was something he had apparently been incapable of preventing. Had they been close? Or had that been a fiction as well, something he had invented out of a relationship based on nothing more than fear and obligation?

 

“Yes,” Arthur said finally, feeling the gravity of the lie settle deep into his bones. “We were.” 

 

 

+

 

 

Arthur took it upon himself to break the news to Gaius. He could not in good conscience delegate such a task to somebody else, not when he knew the physician regarded Merlin as a surrogate son, and certainly not when Merlin had been such an integral part of his own household. To do so would be seen as a mark of disrespect, according to the strange and twisting hierarchies of the court, and if nothing else, Merlin had saved Arthur’s life on multiple occasions: he deserved to be remembered with honour, whatever else he may have been.

 

Arthur’s eyes caught on Gwen as he turned towards the infirmary tent, another stooped figure amidst the workers ferrying wheelbarrows of debris out of the courtyard. Her face was covered in stone-dust, lying thick in her hair and the folds of her clothes, the tracks of sweat and tears and the occasional streak of blood starkly visible through the grime. As he watched, she stopped to wipe her forehead with the heel of one hand, her gaze meeting his. She nodded to him, but Arthur couldn’t bring himself to nod back, and he felt her eyes follow his path to the medical pavilion with a frown, her brow furrowed. It might have been his demeanour which alerted her, or perhaps she, too, had been waiting for news, because a moment later he saw her eyes widen, and one hand flew up to cover her mouth as understanding dawned. When Arthur did not swerve or change his pace, Gwen abandoned her wheelbarrow and began to run, shedding a cloud of fine white powder with every step.

 

She arrived at the tent behind him just after Arthur pushed open the flap, her breathless voice calling, “Gaius!” before the prince had the chance to utter a word. In a way, he was glad of it. His throat seemed to have become very dry all of a sudden, and he could not quite summon the breath to call out himself.

 

There were precious few survivors in the tent. Gaius had been tending to a young woman with a head injury when they entered, but when he heard Gwen shouting for him he stopped what he was doing and turned with an alacrity that would have been remarkable in a younger man. It was obvious that he had been expecting, if not them, then _someone,_ for his eyes went straight to Arthur’s and there was obvious dread in his weathered face. “Gaius,” Gwen said again, much more quietly, her hand reaching out to grip Arthur’s arm. 

 

“They’ve found him, haven’t they?” Gaius said, drawing himself up, and Arthur could only nod, stupidly grateful that he hadn’t needed to say the words out loud. 

 

“Do you—you should sit down,” he said, looking uncertainly over at Gwen. Her eyes were filled with tears, but she took the hint, letting go of Arthur to take a step towards the old man instead. And Gaius did seem _old_ all of a sudden, whey-faced and frail as Gwen helped him to perch on an upturned barrel in lieu of a proper chair. “Is there something we can get you? Some wine, perhaps, a drink of water…?”

 

“No, no, my boy,” Gaius said. He patted Gwen’s arm and gently let her go, straightening his back with an obvious effort. “I shall be quite all right. I just need a moment to absorb…” His voice faltered and trailed off, and to his mortification Arthur caught the gleam of moisture in Gaius’ eyes as well, the tell-tale sign of tears about to spill. He turned away to give the physician some privacy, and found that the dryness in his own throat had intensified, becoming a painful burning sensation that made it hard to breathe.

 

“I had thought he might have snuck away to go after you,” Gaius said, after a long moment. “Perhaps it was foolish of me, but he had said something about meaning to accompany the men the last time I saw him. I thought…I _hoped_ that he had done so and had simply been waylaid.”

 

Something seemed to be stuck in Arthur’s windpipe, and he had to cough a little to clear it. “He wanted to come with us,” he said, when he could speak. “But I made it clear to him that he wasn’t welcome. I thought it would be safer if he stayed behind.” 

 

He heard Gaius’ sharp inhale, but the rebuke he half expected did not come. Instead, the physician said simply, “He told you, then.”

 

Arthur nodded, only half aware of Gwen’s curious gaze on his back, his mouth clenching tight at the memory of their last conversation. Merlin had been so hurt that Arthur wouldn’t let him tag along, and Arthur had just been angry, at Merlin for keeping secrets and at himself for being so blind as to not see something that was right under his nose. _Magic_. As useless as it was dangerous, it seemed. If Merlin had been so powerful, why hadn’t he used it to save himself?

 

“We didn’t part on good terms,” he said at length, his voice wavering in spite of his attempts to control it. “And I regret—I regret now that my last words to him were spoken in anger.” 

 

He heard Gwen give a dry sob behind him, but couldn’t turn. He knew that if he did, if he saw what he was feeling reflected in her and Gaius’ faces, then the tenuous threads that were holding him together would inevitably give way, and he would be pinioned beneath the weight of his own guilt just as surely as if it were another castle set to crush the life out of him. Instead, he remained where he was, staring blankly at the wall of the tent while he listened to Gaius murmuring to Gwen behind him, comforting her as she wept. 

 

Neither of them made a move to console their prince, but Arthur did not resent it. It was no more than he deserved. 

 

 

+

 

 

The sound of shouting and raised voices roused them after a time, and with a glance at Gwen Arthur disengaged himself from the awkward tableau and walked towards the entrance to the tent. Some sort of disturbance had broken out over by the east wing, where a rescue party had been digging through the rubble in an attempt to gain access to what remained of the Great Hall. Men were shouting and running about, and a woman was sobbing, a high-pitched keening sound that was full of an unbearable grief. Arthur’s stomach cramped painfully, his fingers tightening on the tent flap for a moment before letting go. He could only think of one thing that would create such a commotion.

 

They had found his father.

 

 

+

 

 

The king’s body looked somehow smaller in death, though he had been a large man and still well-muscled for his age. With his eyes closed and his hands placed neatly across his chest, he almost looked as though he could be sleeping, if one ignored the obvious wounds and the lingering stiffness of his limbs.

 

He had survived for some time after the initial collapse, Geoffrey told them. He, like Uther, had been among those trapped in the Great Hall, and the experience had graven lines into his cheeks and given a haunted cast to his already somber eyes. Though the king had been injured, as far as anyone could tell it had not been serious, and when another section of the ceiling had given way, trapping the Lady Morgana and several of the wounded on the other side, Uther had been one of the first to set himself to the task of digging them free.

 

“They managed to carve out a tunnel of sorts,” Geoffrey said, in the same flat, monotonous voice with which he had delivered Arthur’s lessons as a boy. “But something must have given way, or perhaps it was simply that the whole structure was unstable. No sooner had they begun to make their way through than one of the walls caved in altogether. It was—I believe it was quick, Your Majesty.” 

 

Arthur received the news without any real feeling. He thought perhaps that he had exhausted the last of his emotional reserves, but it might have been some kind of shock—he didn’t really know. He thanked Geoffrey for his testimony, and helped the old man over to the infirmary tent, where Gaius was even now moving sluggishly to help his newly acquired patients into beds and give them the treatment they needed. 

 

The good news was that Morgana, at least, was still alive, and it took them only a few more hours of digging before they were able to free her and and the others who had been trapped behind the dais. She was pale and shaking when she emerged, a layer of dust coating her fine blue gown and a knot of dark red blood drying on her temple. 

 

“Are you all right?” Arthur asked her, pulling her into a hug which just a few days before would have been unthinkable. “Morgana, are you injured?”

 

Morgana was crying, a seemingly endless stream of tears running down her face, but a cursory examination suggested that apart from some bruising and the blow to her head, she was unhurt. She did not, however, seem willing to talk, nor did she really react to Arthur when he spoke to her, her body remaining stiff and unresponsive in his arms. Arthur sometimes forgot that she was, in many ways, as gently bred as any lady; she so often sparred with him and the other knights, both verbally and physically, that it was a shock to see her so helpless and dishevelled. But then, she had just spent two days in the dark with his father’s body, a handful of injured nobles, and the gods knew what kind of nightmares going through her head, which would have been enough to unsettle anybody's nerves. 

 

“It’s all right, sire, I’ll take care of her,” Gwen said, coming up behind them. She had followed Arthur from the infirmary when she heard the news, and now nudged the prince politely but firmly aside, holding out her hands to the woman in his arms. Morgana went to her at once, as biddable as a child, and buried her face in Gwen’s shoulder. “I’ll take her to Gaius and see if he can give her something to help her sleep. She’ll be back to her old self soon enough, once she’s had some rest and gotten cleaned up a bit.”

 

Her voice was low and soothing, one hand stroking through Morgana’s tangled curls, and Arthur suspected the words were as much for Morgana’s benefit as for his own. He found himself thinking of another pair of hands, broader but no less tender, sweeping the hair off his forehead or brushing imaginary lint from his shoulders before a feast. 

 

Morgana would be safe in Gwen’s care, and Arthur had a kingdom to put back together, piece by fractured piece. He could hardly begrudge the two of them the chance to take comfort where they found it, especially since he had neither the time nor the ability to comfort anyone himself. Nevertheless, when he nodded to Gwen and watched the two women move away, he couldn’t help the sense of loss that swept over him, ridiculous though it was. Morgana was the only family he had left; without her, there was no one who could stand with him as an equal. His father was gone, and Gaius had not moved from the infirmary tent since Arthur had delivered the news about Merlin. For the first time in his life, Arthur found he could no longer envision the road ahead—but wherever it led, it seemed that he was destined to travel it alone.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

2.

 

 

Arthur rubbed at the bridge of his nose and glared at the parchment in front of him, willing the long columns of names and tally marks to finally come together and make sense. Even counting those noblemen who had been with his father in the Great Hall, there weren’t nearly as many people on the list of the injured and dead as there ought to have been. 

 

“There are still so many missing I have no doubt it will take us days to find them all,” he said, feeling exhausted by the very thought of it. “But I have to admit, given the amount of destruction we’ve encountered, I was expecting a higher body count.”

 

“It’s almost as if half the buildings were empty,” Leon agreed, frowning. “After that initial sweep, we found hardly anyone in the Lower Town—most of the bodies so far have come from the citadel, although we’ve really only just begun to search. Perhaps the others fled underground for protection, only to be trapped down there when the castle came down.”

 

“Perhaps.” Arthur wondered what that must have felt like, to have run to the one place that had been designed to keep you safe only to have it collapse above your head. He doubted many of them would have appreciated the irony. “You don’t think they might have made for the countryside? We should send a small party to check the forest, just in case.” 

 

Leon nodded, accepting the orders as he always did, though he and Arthur both knew that if there had been anyone still living in the woods they would have made themselves known long before now. It had been almost five days since the attack, and three days since Arthur and his men had returned to find their homes razed to the ground. “I’ll send some men to the north as well, sire,” Leon said, rolling up the parchment and stowing it in his belt. “It may be that they sought to take refuge in Mercia instead, and are even now making their way towards Bayard’s stronghold in search of aid.” 

 

“Very well.” Arthur sighed, leaning back in his chair. “But we don’t have the manpower to search indefinitely. Send only as many as can be spared, and no horses. We have to conserve what strength we have, and we may need them in the coming days.”

 

They had made considerable progress in the last forty-eight hours, both in clearing away some of the rubble and pulling together a makeshift camp. Those survivors who were mobile had soon been put to work digging latrines and setting up rough-hewn shelters, investigating what few buildings were still standing in an effort to retrieve anything that might be of use. Arthur’s men had been kept on a strict regimen of drill training and regular patrols, or else drafted into service as manual labourers. Some had been sent to help retrieve the bodies of the dead and free those who were trapped or injured, while still others began to construct rudimentary fortifications that would hopefully act to deter any kind of invading force until the walls could be rebuilt. 

 

Arthur was under no illusions about the precariousness of their situation. Reports from the survivors suggested that the sorcerer who had brought down the walls had perished inside them, but whoever he had been working for could still show up. For all they knew, it might be only a matter of days before they found themselves with an army at their backs and nowhere to run. It was crucial that they had some way to defend themselves against attack. 

 

Arthur had always known his people to be resilient and hard-working, but it was the strength of their spirit and the size of their hearts which now impressed him the most. He had seen nobility open their doors to the poor and the poor working alongside the nobility, all without regard for the differences in status that would once have formed an unbridgeable gulf between them. Despite the terrible events that had led up to it, he hoped that if— _when_ —they survived this ordeal, the friendships that had been forged during this dark time would endure. Camelot would be all the stronger for it.

 

When he looked up again, Leon was still lingering at the entrance to the tent. The expression on his face told Arthur that he wasn’t going to like whatever it was that had kept him from leaving. He sighed.

 

“What is it, Leon?”

 

Leon shifted uncomfortably. “Nothing, my lord. It's just—it’s been three days, and the people have been asking when we intend to see about the burials. There are some who have lost their entire families. They have—requests.”

 

The burials. Arthur had almost forgotten. Almost, because the thought of it still loomed over him like a dark cloud whenever he had a spare moment to think about it, which was largely the reason he had been keeping himself so busy. It helped that there was still so very much to do.

 

“Yes, I suppose we will need to start thinking about that,” he said, running a hand through his hair. He hated that they were no longer expecting to find more survivors, and the thought of laying Merlin’s body in the ground forever was not a pleasant one, but it had to be done, and the sooner the better. The summer was even now drawing to a close, but the days were still warm enough for it to matter. “I’ll speak to Gaius—no, perhaps Guinevere would be better. I’ll get back to you when we’ve organised something.”

 

“Yes, sire.” And then, with a bow, Leon was gone.

 

 

+

 

 

 

Arthur waited until after lunch to speak with Gwen. He was busy, it was true, but more than that he was in no rush to begin such a difficult conversation, no matter how necessary it was. Even the tedious hours spent poring over supplies and supervising the barricades were a welcome distraction if it meant he could avoid facing the truth for a short while longer.

 

At length, however, Arthur ducked out of the command tent and picked his way back through the ruins of the Lower Town, knowing exactly where he would find her. Gwen had hardly left Morgana’s side since she’d been rescued, and Arthur had set the two of them up in one of the few houses that were still intact, hoping that the peace and quiet would help with Morgana’s recovery. While she had been making great strides in terms of her physical health, she was still very weak and easily frightened, and sleeping in the infirmary tent with the rest of the injured had only appeared to exacerbate her symptoms. Gaius had assured him that it was a normal reaction to such a shock, and that he had been bleeding her regularly to restore the balance of her humours, but Arthur still worried. She had barely met his eyes for days, and the only person she would speak to at any length was Gwen. It wasn’t like her. 

 

He knocked hesitantly on the door to the hut, pushing it open when he heard Gwen’s familiar voice urging him to come in. She looked round when he entered, dropping hastily into an awkward curtsey when she saw who it was. 

 

“Oh! Your Majesty. I—I wasn’t expecting you.”

 

“Please, Gwen.” Arthur shook his head, reaching out a hand to help her up. “It seems foolish to stand on ceremony at a time like this, don’t you think?”

 

“I suppose so, Your Majesty—I mean—Sire?” She looked flustered, and Arthur smiled a little.

 

“Arthur will do just fine, Guinevere. How are you? And how is Morgana?”

 

“She’s sleeping at the moment,” Gwen said, nodding towards the bed that had been set up near the fire. It was a makeshift affair, comprising an old straw mattress and some ragged blankets that under any other circumstances Morgana would probably have rejected out of hand. Given the situation, however, it was almost a luxury; Arthur himself had been relegated to a simple bedroll in his own quarters on the second floor. “I’ve been keeping busy trying to put the place in order, but Gaius should be coming by to check on her soon. Why, did you want to speak with her?” 

 

“Actually, it was you I came to talk to.” Arthur’s gaze swept the room, taking in the fire, the neatly swept floor, the small broken vase filled with wildflowers that had been set on the table. Impossible as it seemed, Gwen had taken the time to carve out a home here, in defiance of the devastation that was all around her. He suddenly understood why Morgana loved her so much. “I would have spoken to Gaius about it, but under the circumstances it seemed kinder to leave him out of it.”

 

“You wanted to speak to me about what to do with the bodies,” Gwen surmised. Her voice was steady and admirably calm, for all that Arthur could see the tears standing out in her eyes. She was a pragmatic woman, and he had no doubt she could guess what that fact meant.

 

“Some of them are still unidentified,” he said awkwardly. He wanted to apologise for placing such a burden on her shoulders, but he was king now in all but name, and kings did not say sorry. “And the others—I will need someone to talk with their families, if there are any survivors, in case they want to make their own arrangements. Usually that task would fall to Gaius, as the Court Physician, but—after Merlin—” He paused, trying to summon the words. “It doesn’t seem fair to ask it of him. I hope you understand.” 

 

He thought she was going to break, then, but she pulled herself together with an obvious effort, glancing reflexively towards Morgana’s sleeping form. 

 

“They’ll need to be buried,” she said, pushing her hair back with a sharp intake of breath. “In this heat, they must have already begun to—that is—” She looked away, covering her mouth, then said, “I understand, sire. I will do as you ask.”

 

“For those without families, a mass grave is probably the best we can offer them,” Arthur warned her, trying not to think about what that would mean. “But if they have friends or loved ones living, I want those who are so inclined to have the chance to say their farewells in the manner of their own choosing. However, speed is of the essence. We’ve already delayed as long as we can.” He did not mention that the delay had been partly his own fault, reluctant as he had been to face up to the necessity, but from the softening of her eyes she understood.

 

“If you have time, sire—Arthur,” she corrected herself, smiling faintly. “If you have the time to watch over Morgana for me, I will get started immediately.”

 

“I think I can spare her an hour or two,” Arthur said, letting out his breath. Some of the weight that had settled on his shoulders when they had discovered his father’s body lifted slightly, and he almost felt as if he could smile back. “Tell Leon to come and find me here if he has need of me. And thank you, Guinevere. Sincerely.”

 

“You’re welcome, Arthur,” she said, grave and solemn as a queen, and with a graceful, almost elegant curtsey she went to fulfil her grisly task, leaving Arthur alone in the room with the sleeping Morgana.

 

 

+

 

 

At first, when Morgana began to stir on her pallet, Arthur didn’t think anything of it. Gwen had told him that Morgana’s sleep was still disturbed by unpleasant dreams—memories, most likely—and Arthur had heard her tossing and turning in the night, occasionally waking with a cry or a short scream only to be gathered into her maidservant’s comforting arms. Arthur’s own sleep had been restless and full of phantoms, and he tended to lie awake at night himself, preferring to snatch a few minutes rest here and there between giving orders and training with his men. Even the hard hours he put in shifting stone and digging out the dead didn’t seem to have had any effect, so he understood all too well what it was like to crave the healing stillness of sleep and never get it. 

 

When Morgana began to thrash beneath the sheets, however, letting out small whimpers of pain, Arthur straightened in his seat and let the papers he had been reading fall back to the tabletop.

 

“Morgana?” 

 

There was no answer. Standing up, Arthur could see twin blossoms of bright red blood spreading across the sheets, Morgana’s face shockingly pale against her dark hair.

 

“Someone go and fetch Gaius!” Arthur shouted to one of the guards at the door, springing into action. He ran towards the bed, catching at Morgana’s flailing arms as she hit out at him in her sleep, and shook her as gently as he could, trying to rouse her. “Morgana, you need to wake up.”

 

She didn’t seem to hear him. Though still closed, her eyes were darting back and forth, a faint golden glow seeping from beneath their lids, her mouth open as she let out another sound of distress. Across the room, one of the earthenware pots Gwen had been using to store grain shattered of its own accord, disgorging its contents all over the kitchen counter. The cuts where Gaius had been carefully bleeding her had likewise split open, and blood was spilling down her slender forearms, smearing onto the blankets as she twisted her wrists restlessly.

 

Not sure what else to do, Arthur groped for something with which to staunch the wounds, his mind reeling as he tried to process what he was seeing. “Morgana, _wake up_!”

 

He slapped her. The sound rang through the room, along with her sharp cry of pain; then abruptly she sat up, her eyes flying open. “Camelot will rise,” she gasped. “Camelot—the bird will rise—” She gave a little sob and buried her face in her hands, her whole body shaking. “Oh, god. I see them, all of them. All the ghosts…they're coming back...”

 

“Morgana?” Arthur reached for her, but to his shock she actually shrank away from him, her eyes filling with tears. 

 

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice small. “I didn’t mean to do it, Arthur, I swear.” 

 

Arthur glanced back at the shattered pot again, a sudden icy certainty sinking into his stomach. He had seen things like that happen before—the way tree branches would just _happen_ to drop right on top of his enemies, or a tumble of rocks would just _happen_ to fall at exactly the right moment. Even the golden glow was familiar, now that he had a moment to work out what it was.

 

“You have magic,” he breathed. 

 

Hands over her mouth, her hair wild and her arms still runnelled with blood, Morgana met his gaze, and nodded.

 

 

+

 

 

Arthur cleaned up Morgana’s arms the best he could, tying her bandages back in place, and fetched her a drink of water from one of the buckets by the door. 

 

“How long have you known?” he asked quietly, when she seemed calmer. “Have you had it all this time?”

 

She shook her head. “Not long,” she said. “I’ve…suspected, for a while. But I didn’t really know for certain until a few months ago.” 

 

“The fire in your chambers,” Arthur realised. “That wasn’t someone who broke in, was it?” 

 

She looked frightened. “Arthur, I didn’t mean to. I couldn’t control it. And then—”

 

“It’s all right.” Arthur took the cup from her and set it aside, squeezing her knee beneath the blankets. He thought back to Merlin, remembering how he had tried to explain that magic was not always something that had been sought; that it would sometimes grow of its own accord, like a mushroom springing up in dark places overnight. He wished he’d been paying more attention. “You didn’t do it on purpose.”

 

Morgana didn’t seem to be listening. “I was so afraid Uther would find out. The way he feels about magic…he would have killed me, or worse. I couldn’t tell anyone. And then, in the throne room…” 

 

Arthur felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle. “What happened in the throne room?”

 

She shook her head, her eyes brimming. 

 

“It was my fault. He was right there, and I have all this—this power…I should have saved them.”

 

“Morgana, no.” Arthur reached out and caught hold of her arms. “I’m sure you did everything you could.”

 

“I set his robes on fire,” she whispered, and even through her tears Arthur could see a gleam of unmistakeable pride in her eyes, her old defiance resurfacing for just an instant. “They went up like a torch, and he was screaming…But it was too late. He’d already done what he needed to do.” 

 

She swallowed hard, finally lifting her gaze to Arthur’s again. “When the ceiling fell, I tried to stop it. Not deliberately, it was just—instinctive. But I wasn’t powerful enough, or I did something wrong, I don’t know. But that’s—that’s why—”

 

Arthur bundled her into a hug as she started to cry yet again, holding her as gently as he could while she wept against his shoulder. He could guess at the rest of the story all too well: she must have been trying to help the people who had been trapped, only for her power to fail too soon, causing the cave-in that had killed his father and her would-be rescuers. Perhaps the cave-in would have happened anyway, since the building had been so unstable, but it was obvious that Morgana blamed herself, even if no one else did. His heart aching, Arthur stroked her back with the flat of one hand, trying to soothe her through her sobs.

 

“It’s not your fault,” he said, repeating it when she only cried louder. “Morgana. It’s not. You tried to help, and that’s all anyone can do. What happened afterwards…it was the fault of the sorcerer who caused it, not you.”

 

“How—how are you being so calm about this?” she asked, pulling away from him. Her nose was red and her face blotchy, but there was a slightly suspicious set to her gaze. “Don’t you want to have me burnt at the stake, or fed to the dogs, or something? _I’m a sorcerer_. I have magic. It’s my fault Uther is dead!”

 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Arthur said firmly, thinking with a twinge that, had this been the first confession of its nature he had heard in the past few months, he might have tried. “Regardless of what you seem to believe, I'm not completely incapable of thinking for myself, you know. And it has—it has recently come to my attention that perhaps my father was wrong about magic.” It hurt to say the words, when his father was barely cold in his grave, but he knew now that they were right. “Magic is no more evil than a sword; it’s how you wield it that counts.” When she simply stared at him, he added with a touch of asperity, “For goodness sake, Morgana, you must know that I care for you. I would never see you harmed, magic or not. You have my word.” 

 

Morgana’s gaze dropped and she was quiet, apparently thinking this over. To his surprise, her cheeks reddened momentarily before the colour was washed out of them again, and she tugged her hands abruptly out of his grip. Arthur let her go, worried that he had been hurting her, but when she looked up her thoughts had apparently drifted somewhere else entirely. “There’s more.”

 

“More than just your magic?”

 

She nodded, a strange expression stealing over her face. It looked almost like embarrassment. “Uther spoke to me before he died,” she said, her mouth flattening into a thin line. “He called me his daughter.”

 

“His _daughter_ ,” Arthur repeated blankly. “You mean—he said you were as a daughter to him, or—?”

 

But Morgana was shaking her head. “He said I was all he could have wished for in a daughter, just as you were all he could have wished for in a son,” she said, meeting Arthur’s eyes almost defiantly. “I don’t think he meant it as a metaphor.”

 

Uther’s _daughter._ Arthur’s mind raced, but the surprise he would have expected to feel at such a revelation did not come. It explained so much in retrospect. Why his father had always doted on Morgana, holding her opinions as high in his esteem as Arthur’s, if not higher. Why Uther had always been so careful that they should not be allowed to form any kind of attachment to one another, beyond the antagonistic love-hate relationship that had always been their wont at court. Arthur had always regarded her as family—had even wished for it once as a child, when he had only the vaguest of ideas how siblings were formed. But he had never in his wildest dreams imagined that it might be true.

 

“I see,” he said eventually, and Morgana flinched. He reached out and took one of her cold hands in his, squeezing it gently. “I suppose that explains why I’ve always found you so annoying.”

 

For a moment, she just blinked at him, as if she had been expecting a very different sort of answer. Then, when he raised his eyebrows innocently—an expression he had borrowed from Merlin, he realised later—she began to laugh, all of the tension in her shoulders dropping away. It was the best thing Arthur had heard in days, and he grinned at her, enjoying the way the smile made her entire face light up.

 

“And no doubt it explains why I have the frequent urge to box your ears,” Morgana said, still smirking, once she had gotten her laughter under control. Her voice was light and teasing, but her fingers were tight on his, and Arthur understood that she had been genuinely afraid that he would reject her, if not for her magic then out of a desire to keep his father’s love all to himself. He might have done, once, but under the circumstances all Arthur could bring himself to feel was relief.

 

“How fortunate for both of us that you never tried,” he said drily, and had to duck when she made as if to make good on the threat. He was saved from any further attempts at retaliation, however, by the sound of hurried footsteps approaching from outside, and a moment later the door swung open. Of course—in all the excitement, he had forgotten he’d sent for the physician.

 

“I came as quickly as I could, my lord,” Gaius said, the anxiety evident in his voice. “But I'm afraid I was held up. What seems to be the matter?”

 

“It’s all right, Gaius,” Arthur said, getting to his feet and helping the old man over to the bed. He sat down rather heavily, sounding out of breath, and Arthur exchanged a concerned look with Morgana before he went on. “Morgana was having a nightmare, that’s all. She—” He hesitated, wondering whether to tell Gaius about Morgana’s powers. But the fewer people who knew at this point the better, so he extemporised, “She was crying out in her sleep; knocked over a vase and re-opened the cuts on her arms. I was worried she was having a fit, but she’s fine now.”

 

Morgana shot him a narrow-eyed glare, clearly insulted, but Arthur just widened his own eyes in response. After all, it wasn’t as if it was a lie. 

 

Gaius insisted on checking Morgana over thoroughly, setting out his instruments and preparing her for another bloodletting just to be on the safe side. Arthur stood back and watched him as he worked, ruminating on the strange turn his life had taken. Even before the citadel had fallen, his deepening relationship with Merlin had been an unexpected gift, and then the skirmish with Caerleon’s men had seemed to come out of nowhere. No doubt that had been intended to serve as a cover for the sorcerer’s attack on Camelot, but at the time it had taken them all unawares. And now, here he was, a king in his own right several years too early, living in a falling-down shack in the Lower Town with his formerly unknown half-sister—a sorceress, of all things—while the rest of his home stood in ruins around him. 

 

He wished Merlin was there. It seemed like the sort of moment when his manservant would have said something uncharacteristically wise and comforting, or even just tucked his hand into Arthur’s when no one else was looking and given it a reassuring squeeze. No doubt he would also have found it particularly diverting if Morgana had made good on her threat to box Arthur’s ears. 

 

“It will be all right, Arthur,” Morgana said, and Arthur looked up to see her watching him, her face turned stoically away from where Gaius was now catching the blood from her arm in his bowl. “Camelot will rise again in the end, you’ll see. You just have to have faith.”

 

It was easier said than done, Arthur thought, but he smiled at her and nodded, and hoped with everything he had that it would come true. 

 

 

+

 

 

“Did you know?” Arthur asked Gaius, when Morgana had closed her eyes again and was once more sleeping peacefully. Arthur was still holding onto her hand, however, unwilling to let go of the connection just yet. “Did you know she was my sister?”

 

Gaius shook his head. “Your father kept some secrets even from me,” he said, and though his tone was steady there was something almost sad in his eyes, as if the admission pained him. “He must have been afraid that it would endanger her, if word got out about her parentage. Or perhaps he feared she would one day make a bid for the throne.”

 

Arthur looked at him, startled—he had known Morgana to be angry before, and she could be venomous when crossed, but he couldn’t see her resorting to fratricide. Gaius shook his head. 

 

“I can only speculate,” he said, somewhat apologetically. “It might not have been that at all. Your father loved Ygraine very dearly—perhaps he was ashamed that he was unfaithful to her, and did not want the truth of it to be widely known.”

 

Arthur nodded, more willing to accept this explanation. His father had been a proud man, certainly, and a complex one. Arthur wasn’t convinced he could have reconciled such a betrayal with the kind of love Uther had always professed to have for his wife, but it would be like his father to believe that keeping his daughter a secret would solve half the problem. 

 

“There is—something else that you should know,” Gaius said, his eyes on Morgana’s sleeping form. “I did not wish to say anything until I was certain, but for some time now I have suspected that the dreams she has been having are not merely dreams. They are visions.” 

 

“Visions? You mean—wait. You know that she has magic?” Arthur asked, surprised. Gaius’ face tightened at the word, and Arthur could feel the ghost of what could have been hovering between them, all big ears and gangly elbows, laughter cut off by the rumble of falling stone.

 

“I had my suspicions, yes,” the physician said at last. “Many times she has come to me with dreams that have later come true. Although she would no doubt deny that it is any such thing, it seems that she has developed the gift of prophecy, among other things.” 

 

“Gaius, these dreams—” Arthur began, but he was interrupted by a discreet cough from the front of the room.

 

“My lord.” Sir Bors, one of his father’s knights, was standing in the doorway. “Begging your pardon for interrupting, but one of the scouts has just reported a large group of men on the horizon. Heading this way.” 

 

Arthur’s stomach dropped. “An army?”

 

“I do not know, my lord. Whoever they are, they are approaching at speed and without fear.”

 

Exchanging an anxious look with Gaius, Arthur got to his feet, though not before laying Morgana’s hand carefully at her side and pulling the covers over her chest. She stirred in her sleep, frowning a little, but did not wake.

 

“There’s a door in the back,” Arthur said suddenly, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. “If this force should prove hostile—”

 

“I will make sure that she is safe, sire,” Gaius said solemnly, some of the warmth rekindling in his eyes. “You have my word.”

 

Arthur clasped his arm briefly and then ducked out of the house. Even without Sir Bors' outstretched finger, he would have noticed the cloud of dust on the horizon, spreading in a frighteningly large column along the King’s Road to the east. They were slower than he would have expected for men on horseback—foot soldiers, then, with the cavalry behind? But where were the archers?

 

“How many, do you think?” he asked the knight. Sir Bors shrugged.

 

“A hundred or so, maybe more,” he said. Sir Bors was a large man, in his early forties, his face mottled with scars from the many battles he had fought and won. He was too well-trained to show any signs of fear, though he must have been aware that, with the situation as it was, they could not hope to fight off even half that number. “We have the high ground, but they have the advantage of us in numbers and presumably weaponry. Likely they’ll be better rested, too,” he added, lips twisting wryly. “And better fed. They’ll be well ready to make a fight of it, if that’s what they’re looking for.”

 

Arthur nodded. That had been his assessment, too, but it was as well to hear his thoughts confirmed.

 

“Gather the men,” he said, “those who can still bear arms, and tell them to form up in the centre of the courtyard. Have the others gather the civilians inside whatever shelter they can find. They’re to stay there until the fighting’s over, or until someone comes for them. Understood?”

 

“Sire.” Bors bowed, and left to do as he was bid. Arthur clambered up onto what remained of one of the outer walls, squinting into the afternoon sunlight as he tried to make out what they were facing. This close, he could identify only the blocky shapes of wagons and the sharp prongs of some sort of weapons which a few of the soldiers were carrying in their arms. Were those— _pitchforks_? 

 

Confused now, Arthur dropped down from the wall into the dirt and moved further down the hill for a better look, ignoring the shouts of his men calling for him to come back. They _were_ pitchforks, and rakes, and various assorted agricultural implements, carried with all the menace and discipline of an angry farmer chasing off a bunch of trespassing kids. The approaching army, it appeared, was not an army at all, but a mob of villagers, and unless Arthur’s tired mind was deceiving him, there, striding out confidently in front of them all, was—

 

“ _Merlin_ ,” Arthur breathed, and his knees went weak.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

3.

 

 

Arthur watched their approach from a pile of rubble near the outer gates, his arms folded across his chest and his face—he hoped—quite blank now that he’d gotten past that first shock.

 

“You’re late,” he said, when Merlin trailed to a stop in front of him. The rest of the mob milled uncertainly in his wake, some of their weapons drooping now that it appeared there was no one to fight. Arthur was fairly certain he saw several women among their number. “We got here three days ago. Where have you been?” 

 

“Took a bit of a detour,” Merlin said. Up close, he looked exhausted, his dark hair flying every which way, his neckerchief smudged with dirt from the road and hanging limply around his neck. There was sunburn on his nose and the tips of his ears were peeling, making him look like a particularly gawky lizard in the middle of shedding its skin. He was the best thing Arthur had ever seen. “Had to stop and collect an army. You know how it is.” 

 

Arthur nodded, hiding his amusement in a squint as he looked past Merlin to the villagers beyond. He jerked his chin at them. “And where did they come from, then?”

 

“Them? Oh, here and there.” Merlin’s face split into a broad grin, the one that made his eyes crinkle and Arthur’s heart skip a beat. “But I think you’ll find most of them came from Camelot, my lord. I saved them for you.”

 

 

+

 

 

They were indeed Camelot’s missing townspeople; as Arthur and Merlin trudged up the slope towards the citadel, the villagers surged ahead of them, greeting their friends and loved ones with excited shouts and exclamations of relief. 

 

“We left the children and some of the older folk behind,” Merlin explained as they walked. “We weren’t sure what we would find when we got back, and I didn’t want to save them only to bring them back to a slaughter. But I promised I would send word as soon as it was safe.”

 

Arthur couldn’t stop looking at him. It seemed to have been an age since he had seen Merlin last, for he kept finding new features in his face that he had somehow forgotten. Fortunately, Merlin seemed to be suffering from a similar affliction, darting shy glances at Arthur every few seconds as if to check that he hadn’t disappeared. He blushed when Arthur caught him at it and looked away, but looked back again a few moments later, as if unable to help himself, and at last, Arthur snorted.

 

“What is it?” he demanded, putting his hands on his hips. “Is there something on my face?”

 

“No, nothing! I just, um. The battle. How did it go?”

 

“We won,” Arthur said drily. “Obviously.” 

 

“Right, obviously.” Merlin chewed on his lower lip. “And…is everyone all right? No one was hurt?” 

 

“There were some casualties,” Arthur said. “But fewer than I’d expected. I understand now that it was only meant as a diversion.”

 

Merlin nodded, and perhaps that indeed had been all he wanted to ask because he fell silent, his eyes trained on his feet as they walked. Arthur had seen that look before, however, so he was only mildly surprised when a few moments later Merlin opened his mouth again and said, “Are _you_ all right? The citadel—”

 

“—was already gone when we arrived,” Arthur said, shaking his head. “My men and I arrived too late to be caught in the initial collapse, and since then my chief concern has been for my people. We had thought more must have been trapped somewhere beneath the rubble.” He nodded at the group in front of them, who were now dispersing throughout the makeshift camp. “Thankfully, it seems we were mistaken.”

 

“And Gwen and Morgana and the others?”

 

“All fine,” Arthur said. “Well, mostly fine. Gaius, too. But my father—” He looked away, tucking his chin as he swallowed past the lump in his throat. “He didn’t make it out in time.” 

 

There was a brief silence. Arthur walked on without looking at Merlin, watching the small clouds of dust rising up beneath their feet. It had been a dry summer, but in many ways they were lucky that the weather had been so mild. This early in the season, there was a good chance that they would be able to regroup before the harvest, and they should have enough temporary shelters built by then to withstand the winter frosts. All things considered, it could have been worse.

 

“I won’t pretend I liked him,” Merlin said finally, his voice soft. “But for your sake, I’m sorry he’s dead. And I’m sorrier than I can say that you had to go through all that alone.”

 

Arthur only grunted in response; he wasn’t sure he could speak without embarrassing himself. Fortunately, Merlin seemed to understand, and the two of them walked back into Camelot in silence, their fingers brushing occasionally where they walked side by side. 

 

 

+

 

 

Leon’s double-take when he saw Merlin walking through the shattered gates was almost comical. His face turned pale, his hand drifting towards his sword for a moment as his eyes sought Arthur’s. Arthur nodded at him and tried to convey the pertinent details without saying anything; yes, it was really Merlin, and no, he wasn’t a threat. Leon visibly relaxed as he, too, nodded in return, but Arthur still took a step closer to his manservant just in case. He knew Leon wouldn’t attack without his orders, but he wasn’t so certain about the rest of his men.

 

“Most of the missing are now accounted for, sire,” Leon reported, as soon as the king was close enough to hear. “They don’t really remember what happened, most of them—one minute they were in Camelot, the next they had been transported to Warrich, where they regrouped before returning to defend their homes. There are rumours that there was another sorcerer involved.” 

 

“Did they mention any names?” Arthur asked mildly, keeping his own voice calm despite the turmoil in his gut. “A description, any hints about what this person might look like?”

 

“No, my lord.” Leon kept his eyes down. “Several of them claimed to have seen him, but when questioned they found they couldn’t recall any distinguishing features. Should I ask again?”

 

“Of course they didn’t,” Arthur muttered under his breath. He caught Merlin’s sheepish expression out of the corner of his eye and shook his head. It should probably worry him that his people were so willing to protect a known sorcerer from the Crown, but somehow he couldn’t find it in himself to be _too_ angry. “No, no need for that, Leon. Would you be so kind as to gather the interim council in the command tent for me in, say, half an hour? I’m sure everyone will have a lot of questions and I’d rather not be forced to repeat myself.” 

 

“Yes, sire.”

 

“Thank you. Come along, _Mer_ lin.” Arthur caught hold of Merlin by the shoulder and dragged his absentee manservant along behind him, making a beeline for the largest pavilion near the centre of the camp. Merlin shook him off with a scowl after only a few steps, but he waited until they were out of Leon’s earshot to speak.

 

“You’re going to make me tell them, aren’t you?” 

 

“I think the people of Camelot deserve to know who saved them,” Arthur said evenly. “And I, for one, would sure as hell like to know what you’ve been up to since I’ve been gone.”

 

“I haven’t done anything wrong,” Merlin said, pressing his lips together tightly and glancing away. “It’s just like Leon said. I transported everyone to Warrich, made sure they were safe, then we collected some weapons and came back here. There isn’t really much to tell.”

 

“For someone who likes to talk a lot, you’re remarkably sparing with the details,” Arthur said. He pushed Merlin ahead of him into the tent, sitting him down firmly on one of the ancient benches. Ironically, he had a feeling that particular seat had been rescued from the tavern. “I hope you remember some more while we’re waiting, or this is going to be a very short meeting.”

 

 

+

 

 

The others began to straggle in in twos and threes a short while later. Many of Uther’s original councillors had died when the castle collapsed, and those who were still alive were largely confined to the infirmary tent, having been standing closest to the king when the ceiling of the throne room came down. Geoffrey remained, however, along with Sir Bors and Sir Leon, and Arthur had appointed a few younger men he trusted to fill in the gaps. To his surprise, Morgana came in with them, accompanied by Gwen and Gaius on either side. She lifted her chin defiantly when Arthur caught her eye, looking wan and tired but as determined as he'd ever seen her, and Arthur thought about the stream of presumed-dead villagers even now pouring back into their houses and streets. Had that been what Morgana meant, when she’d seen the ghosts coming back? He would have to ask her later. 

 

Those who knew Merlin were pleased to see him back. Gwen hugged him so hard he squeaked, and Gaius was moved to tears, embracing Merlin soundly before cuffing him around the ear and forbidding his charge from ever doing something so abysmally foolish again. From Merlin’s beaming smile, Arthur guessed that was the equivalent of an endearment between the two of them. He almost felt jealous, but he pushed the thought away. There would be time for their own, more private reunion later; for now, there was business to attend to. 

 

When the tent was finally full, and the last of the greetings had been exchanged, Arthur gestured for the councillors to sit and stood in front of them, clearing his throat.

 

“As I’m sure all of you are aware,” he began. “Today is a day of celebration. Many of those we had thought lost have been returned to us, and while we still grieve for those who are dead, we must also rejoice that so many are living.”

 

There was a cheer from several of the knights, and Arthur nodded, acknowledging their enthusiasm.

 

“However, I have no doubt that many of you are wondering just how such a thing is possible, and the answer—as I’m sure some among you must have guessed—is sorcery. It was a sorcerer who saved so many of our people, just as it was a sorcerer who placed them in danger in the first place.”

 

A ripple ran through his assembled audience, and Arthur paused, waiting for this to sink in. He could see some of the knights and older noblemen glancing at each another, looks of faint alarm on their faces as they shook their heads and muttered under their breath. 

 

“I have gathered you here because I believe you, and the citizens of Camelot, have the right to know the truth,” Arthur said, keeping his voice as steady and unconcerned as he could manage. He shifted his gaze to look at Merlin, who was gripping Gaius’ hand with his eyes closed, like a prisoner waiting for an axe to fall. “And the truth is that my manservant, Merlin, is that sorcerer. He is the one responsible for saving so many of your friends and loved ones from the citadel, and he is the one who brought them safely back to you.” 

 

Only Leon and Gaius reacted calmly to this news; Gwen clapped both her hands over her mouth, and Sir Bors actually drew his sword, the metal gleaming dangerously in the afternoon sunlight. Arthur saw Merlin’s eyes fly open, a faint gleam of gold in their depths, and stepped in hurriedly before things could get out of hand.

 

“I’m sure you have many questions,” he said, holding up his hands. “I know I do. Which is why I have asked Merlin to tell us what happened in his own words. I ask only that you listen with open minds to whatever he has to tell us. Remember, he came back to Camelot in order to make sure it was safe before sending your children home, despite the fact that he could well have been facing almost certain death. I think that merits at least some benefit of the doubt.” He looked at his manservant. “Merlin?” 

 

If looks could kill, Arthur would probably have been incinerated on the spot, but after a moment of resistance Merlin was shoved from his seat by Gaius and stumbled up to the front of the tent, nearly tripping over his own feet as he did so. Arthur rested a hand on the small of his back to steady him, and felt him let out a shaky breath.

 

“Whenever you’re ready,” Arthur said softly, and with another sidelong glance at him, Merlin began to tell his tale.

 

Most of the story Arthur knew already, having pieced it together from the various accounts of survivors who had witnessed the whole thing. A musician had come to Camelot to play before the king at the feast of Lammas, but—as happened all too often in his father’s kingdom—had no sooner begun to play than he had been revealed to be a sorcerer in disguise. He had declared before the entire court that King Uther was a traitor to the land and undeserving of the crown, and that it was his duty to hasten the coming of the Once and Future King. He had then called out a spell in a strange language, driving his staff—or it might have been a sword, the stories differed—into the stone before the dais and causing a massive quake which had toppled the citadel to its foundations.

 

“Where were you when all this was happening?” Gaius asked, leaning forward. “You weren’t in the throne room, I take it?” 

 

“No, I felt the magic from Arth—I mean, from the prince’s chambers,” Merlin said. “Seeing as you and the prince were both away, I wasn't needed at the feast, so I was tidying up in there when the attack happened. I had only a few seconds to get everybody out.”

 

“So you were nowhere near the servants’ quarters, then,” Arthur said, feeling relieved in spite of himself. Even seeing Merlin standing alive and well in front of him, some part of his mind was still holding onto the image of that broken body, the hair dark with blood. 

 

Merlin shot him an odd look, but shook his head. “No. By the time the castle walls came down, I was already in Warrich.”

 

“But Warrich is only a day and a half’s march from here,” Leon pointed out. “If you transported everyone there five days ago, how is it that you’ve only now been able to make your way back?”

 

“I was out cold for at least a day after the attack,” Merlin confessed sheepishly. “And after that, it took me a while to convince everyone that I wasn’t trying to hurt them, and longer than I would have liked to explain that we had to go back. Once they fully understood what had happened, though, they agreed to come with me and help me defend Camelot.” 

 

Arthur, who knew all too well how the villagers must have responded to such a blatant use of magic in their midst, could only imagine the sort of fast-talking a sorcerer would have had to do to keep his head from ending up on the block. To have not only avoided execution but returned with the townsfolk at his back, ready to fight? Arthur shook his head.

 

“Only you, Merlin,” he said, but it came out sounding more affectionate than he had intended. Merlin flashed him an uncertain sort of smile, as if he weren’t sure whether that was meant to be an insult or a compliment. “And what about the people that were left behind?”

 

Merlin’s expression clouded. “There shouldn’t have _been_ anybody left behind,” he said, glancing uncertainly at Gaius. “I tried to get everyone out, but I didn’t have much time, and the other sorcerer’s magic kept getting in the way of my spell. Those closest to the blast were too difficult for me to grasp, but I did the best I could for the rest.”

 

“And you did brilliantly, my boy,” Gaius said, smiling at him. “Transportation spells are hard enough to do for one person, let alone a hundred, especially without sufficient time to prepare. It’s a miracle you managed to save as many as you did.”

 

Merlin smiled, but Arthur could tell he still felt guilty by the way he couldn't seem to hold his mentor's gaze. He glanced around at their assembled audience, taking in their respective expressions. Most of them looked confused, or slightly sceptical; those who had known Merlin the longest were looking at him with outright disbelief, though only a handful of the older knights seemed actively hostile. Morgana and Gwen, who had taken seats near the back of the tent, were leaning their heads together, whispering under their breaths. 

 

“How long?” Sir Leon asked finally. He kept his eyes on Merlin, wary but not obviously upset, and Arthur’s respect for the man went up another notch. “How long have you had magic?”

 

“I was born with it,” Merlin said, folding his arms. It was the same thing he had said when Arthur demanded to know how long he had been lying to him, but only now was he objective enough to notice the way Merlin’s stance shifted as he said it, broadening at the legs and shoulders as though he were defiant. Or proud. “I’ve been doing magic since before I could walk.”

 

“That’s impossible,” Sir Bors said flatly. “No one is _born_ with magic.”

 

“I think you’ll find that Merlin speaks the truth,” Gaius corrected him, stepping up beside his charge. He laid a hand on Merlin’s shoulder, and the two of them exchanged a look before the old man went on. “Most sorcerers, as you know, either learn or acquire their powers late in life. However, there are legends which tell of some sorcerers whose powers are so innate, so much a part of them, that they are able to do magic as children, even infants. Such men are extremely rare, but very powerful.”

 

“And you think Arthur’s _manservant_ is one of them?” Geoffrey said, raising a bushy eyebrow. “Gaius, don’t you think you’re making too much of the boy?”

 

An instant later, one of the torches that had been standing unlit near the doorway surged into life, causing Sir Bors, who was nearest, to swear loudly and jump out of the way of the flame. Merlin hadn’t even bothered to lift his hand, Arthur realised, partly impressed and partly amused by the theatricality of the gesture. Merlin always did have something of a flare for drama.

 

“Believe it,” the warlock said, the gold fading slowly from his eyes. “How else would I have been able to get hundreds of people out of the citadel so quickly?”

 

Sir Bors glared at him, his arms folded, but he could offer no response, and neither could Geoffrey. Had their audience been different, Arthur suspected that the older knight might have given Merlin a clip around the ear for startling him—Sir Bors was very old-fashioned when it came to the treatment of servants, but Arthur was fairly sure Merlin would have given him a run for his money.

 

At last, Leon spoke up again, but this time his question was directed at Arthur. 

 

“Did you know?” he asked. 

 

“I found out,” Arthur said, deliberately vague, although he could see a few of the pieces coming together in the expression on Leon’s face. He hadn’t exactly been pleasant to be around for the last few weeks, and Leon hadn’t been head of the King’s Guard for nothing. No doubt he had drawn his own conclusions about exactly what Arthur had found out and when. 

 

“Sire, are you certain he had nothing to do with this?” Sir Bors said, looking at Merlin critically. “It seems awfully coincidental that he would choose this moment to reveal himself, just when we were in such desperate need of him. How do we know this isn’t some kind of trick?”

 

“Would you rather he had chosen some other moment to deploy his gifts?” Gaius inquired acidly, one eyebrow raised. “Perhaps _after_ the citadel had fallen on all of your heads?”

 

“I’d have to be really stupid to bring down the citadel and almost get caught in my own trap,” Merlin pointed out, before Bors could respond. “Not to mention trying to kill a lot of people only to turn around and transport them out of harm’s way.” 

 

“It could have been a ploy of some sort,” the knight countered, a little too eagerly for Arthur’s taste. “Maybe it was just the king you were after. Or perhaps you wanted to get back into Arthur’s good graces, after he found out what you were.” 

 

“Merlin would never do something like that,” Gwen said sharply from the back of the room, only to falter a little when the rest of the company turned towards her. She looked from Morgana to Arthur and back again with a pleading expression. “Sire. You know he would not.” 

 

Arthur lifted his eyebrows at his manservant. “Merlin?”

 

Merlin’s cheeks were red and his eyes fixed on the ground, but he answered readily enough. “I would never try to trick Arthur,” he said, voice quiet. “He is my king.” He did not add, _as he was my prince_ , or any other caveat, as if Arthur had been king long before his father’s death, and when he looked up there was something about his eyes that seemed to plead with Arthur to understand, although what he didn’t know. Merlin’s transgressions, such as they were, had never been of a political nature, not really: the sting that he had felt when Merlin confessed his secret had been purely personal.

 

“Very well,” Arthur said at last, dropping his arms and glancing around the tent. “If there are no further questions…” He paused, hearing Gaius clear his throat. “Yes, Gaius?”

 

“May I ask, sire,” the physician sounded hesitant, “what you intend on doing with Merlin? That is…Under your father’s law, he would be executed.”

 

A hush fell over the gathering, and Arthur straightened his back as all eyes turned towards him. 

 

“My father was a great king,” he said after a moment. He could feel Morgana’s gaze on him, but he didn’t dare look at her, hoping she would know that this applied to her as well. “And I hope to emulate him in many respects. But I find I cannot condone the killing of an innocent man for an ability he was born with, any more than I could kill someone else simply for their skill with a sword or ability to sing. Merlin saved Camelot—the fact that he used magic to do so is ultimately irrelevant. I will not repay that debt with murder.”

 

Gaius merely nodded at him, his eyes shining as he gripped Merlin’s arm, but after a moment, Arthur heard someone begin to clap. His eyes strayed to the back of the tent, where Morgana was on her feet, her head held high as she applauded. Then, beside her, another person took up the gesture, and then another, and soon it had spread throughout the gathering, until the air was filled with the sound of cheering and applause. Beside him, Merlin was beaming, pink to the tips of his ears, and the expression on his face made Arthur's heart contract. 

 

He knew that it couldn’t really be this simple—Merlin was still a sorcerer, and there were always going to be those like Sir Bors who clung to King Uther’s precepts with stubborn resolve—but even though his father would have been turning in his grave (if he’d had one), for the first time in a long time Arthur felt some measure of peace. 

 

 

+

 

 

“Would you care to explain to me why people keep looking at me as if they’ve seen a ghost?” Merlin asked later that evening, not glancing up from where he was crouched beside the fire. “Gaius said you told them I was dead.”

 

Arthur started a little. He had been standing in the doorway for several minutes now, drinking in the familiar sight of his manservant puttering about the hearth and straightening out the few remaining clothes that Arthur now possessed. He hadn’t thought Merlin had even known that he was there, but apparently he’d been paying more attention than Arthur realised. Or perhaps it was just habit, by now, for one of them to know when the other was close by. Perhaps it was magic.

 

“I thought you _were_ dead,” he said, stepping further into the room. It seemed even smaller now that Merlin’s bedroll was taking up most of the leftover space on the floor—a formality only, if Arthur had anything to say about it—but Arthur couldn’t pretend that the knowledge that the two of them would be sleeping under the same roof again didn’t fill him with a fierce sort of joy. “You remember the way George would sometimes dress like you? Gwen used to say he could have been your twin, in the right light.” 

 

“Yes, I remember,” Merlin said, and even in profile Arthur could tell he was making a face. “He even had the same boots and the same kind of sticky-outy ears…” His voice trailed off, and then his mouth dropped open. “Wait, do you mean to tell me you thought I was _George_? Arthur!”

 

“Merlin,” Arthur said wearily. In hindsight, perhaps it _was_ a bit insulting, but he remembered too well the sickening lurch in his gut to find Merlin’s outrage funny. “He was of a similar height and build, wearing the same clothes, and his face…Well. There wasn’t really much left of his face. It was an easy mistake to make.”

 

Merlin’s expression sobered immediately and he straightened, for once looking actually contrite. “Poor George,” he said quietly. 

 

“We think he was trying to get the others out when the citadel collapsed. So if it’s any consolation,  he died attempting to be a hero.” Arthur put down the cup he had been holding, suddenly losing his taste for the wine. The red looked a little bit too much like blood. “No doubt he also adopted your penchant for getting into trouble.”

 

“No doubt,” Merlin echoed, but his eyes were on Arthur’s again, as if he knew that there was more that Arthur wasn’t saying. It had only been a few weeks since they’d last seen each other—a few weeks since Arthur had ridden off to war and commanded Merlin, the _sorcerer_ , to remain behind if he valued his life—but it seemed Arthur had forgotten how well Merlin knew him. The other man could read things in his eyes that Arthur didn’t even know he was feeling, making it pointless to try to dissemble. Perhaps he didn’t really want to, anyway. 

 

“I didn’t like him,” he said abruptly, and Merlin’s head came up. “I didn’t like him and I’m not saying I wished him dead but God help me, all I can think about is how glad I am he wasn’t you.” 

 

“Arthur…”

 

“Don’t.” Arthur cut him off with a sharp chopping motion, and Merlin shut up with gratifying speed. “I’m aware of what I said to you the last time we spoke.”

 

Merlin let out a small huff that might have been a laugh. “I wasn’t going to bring it up.”

 

“Well, I am.” Arthur paused for a moment, struggling to find the right words. “You have to know that I—that is, when I told you I never wanted to see you again…” He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. Merlin was still watching him with those damnably beautiful eyes, refusing to help him out of the morass the conversation had become. “Having spent the last few days convinced that my wish had come true, I find that it is not something I desire after all.”

 

“You mean, you missed me,” Merlin translated, with a sudden impish grin. “Sire, I’m touched.” 

 

“That’s not all you are,” Arthur muttered, though he was unable to suppress a small answering smile. _Missed him_ was something of an understatement, but it would do for now. “However, there is still the minor matter of your magic to discuss.”

 

Merlin’s smile faded. “Do we have to?” he said. “You’ve already promised you’re not going to burn me. Isn’t that enough?” 

 

It might have been, once, if Merlin had been merely his inconveniently magical manservant who just happened to have saved almost an entire city of people. But although they had spoken a couple of times that afternoon about what had happened in Merlin’s absence—he had been particularly astonished to learn about Morgana—there were still a few things that Arthur wanted to get off his chest.

 

“They all know, now,” he said, ignoring Merlin. “Everyone. You can’t conceal it anymore.” 

 

“I know.” Merlin straightened his shoulders. “And in all honesty, I’m glad. I didn’t want to have to keep hiding who I was all the time.” He swallowed. “Especially from you.”

 

“Even if who you are ended up getting you killed?”

 

Merlin looked away, his teeth worrying at his lower lip. “I didn’t—it was never that, Arthur, that stopped me from telling you. I know you wouldn’t hurt me.”

 

“What then?” In spite of himself, Arthur knew he had to ask, even if he wasn’t sure he was going to like the answer. “Did you think I would turn my back on you? Banish you, perhaps?”

 

But Merlin only shook his head, the corners of his mouth turning down. “If I told you, then you would have had to pick a side," he said softly. "I didn’t want you to have to choose between being loyal to me and being loyal to your king. Not when I knew how much it would hurt you.”

 

He said it quietly, simply, and Arthur knew that it was meant as an apology of sorts, for the way Merlin had put off telling him until the moment he’d truly feared Arthur would not come back. For an instant, the king felt his old anger resurface, the bitter taste of betrayal rising in his throat, but looking into Merlin’s face he found he couldn’t bear to let this stand between them any longer. 

 

“I’m the king now,” he said, and the words still sounded strange to his ears despite having had almost two full days to get used to them. He couldn’t imagine they would ever not sound strange. “Which means I’m going to have to make some choices anyway.”

 

Merlin’s expression shifted. “What are you saying?”

 

“I’m saying that it’s my decision,” Arthur said more slowly, feeling out the idea even as he spoke, “what to do next. How much of the old Camelot we carry forward and how much…how much we leave behind.” 

 

He saw Merlin’s Adam’s apple bob and knew that his manservant understood. “The law against magic?” he whispered.

 

Arthur let out his breath. “I’m not saying I’m ready to lift the ban entirely,” he said, keeping his voice even. “But if my sister has magic, and magic is the reason so many of my people survived, then it seems I have no choice but to—to reconsider the way magic has been treated in Camelot. Within reason, of course.”

 

He could hear the ticking of insects outside the too-thin walls, the sound of voices in the near distance, the crackle of the fire still burning in the grate. When he looked back, Merlin was crying, and Arthur thought his heart might stop.

 

“What?” he asked, hearing the note of panic in his voice. “What is it?”

 

Merlin shook his head. “You are such a prat,” he said, a hiccup of laughter in his voice, and a moment later Arthur found himself with a face full of dark curls as the servant flung his arms around him. After an instant’s hesitation, Arthur pulled him close, revelling in the living warmth of Merlin’s embrace. He had missed this—he had missed all of this, so much.

 

“You should be nicer to me, you know,” he said into Merlin's hair. “Or I might take up Morgana’s suggestion and appoint you Court Sorcerer as a reward for your recent heroism.”

 

“You wouldn’t dare,” Merlin said in obvious horror, and Arthur laughed. 

 

“No? I thought you’d look quite dashing in some new robes. I was picturing something in scarlet, with a gold border—nice and eye-catching. With a matching hat, perhaps?”

 

“Never mind, sire, I’m going back to Warrich.” Merlin squirmed, trying to get away, but Arthur reeled him back in easily enough. He pressed a kiss to the corner of Merlin’s mouth, clumsy and quick, then to his cheek and the side of his ear, and Merlin melted into him without any further resistance, letting out a soft sound that made Arthur wish they were alone in the kingdom, instead of stuck in a small hut with his half sister and her maid sleeping on the floor below. 

 

“Thank you,” he whispered into Merlin’s hair, holding him tight. “For everything.” 

 

It was as close to an apology as he could get, but fortunately Merlin seemed able to read between the lines. “You’re welcome,” he said simply. He twisted in Arthur’s arms to kiss him in return, plundering his way inside Arthur’s mouth without shyness or hesitation, and as was so often the case, Arthur had a vague idea that he ought to be affronted by the way Merlin made free with his royal person, but found he was enjoying himself too much to care. They didn’t come up for air again until Merlin, stumbling a little as Arthur nudged him back towards the bed, knocked into the wall with a loud thud and Morgana let out a scandalised, “We can _hear_ you, you know!” from somewhere beneath them. 

 

Merlin let out a small squeak of surprise, which turned into a stifled giggle when Arthur immediately dropped his arms and took a step back, his cheeks burning as he recalled where they were. 

 

“Sorry,” he called sheepishly. “I, uh, tripped. Didn’t mean to wake you.”

 

“You tripping didn’t wake me,” came Morgana’s tart reply. “It was you taking advantage of your manservant that woke me. You’re about as subtle as a brick when it comes to that boy, Arthur Pendragon, so don’t think you can fool me.”

 

Merlin’s giggles had turned into open laughter by this time, and the king poked at him, annoyed, but Merlin wriggled out of reach.

 

“I don’t know how we managed to miss the fact that you two are siblings,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s really obvious, now that I think about it.” 

 

“Yes, well.” Arthur raised an eyebrow. “Apparently some secrets are better kept in plain sight.” Merlin flushed a little at that, but Arthur just smiled crookedly at him and cupped his cheek. “Stay,” he said softly. “Please?”

 

“I wasn’t thinking of going anywhere,” Merlin assured him, stepping close to kiss him once again. As his arms settled around Arthur’s waist, the king felt himself relaxing for the first time since he had learned of Merlin’s secret. This—this was right, this was the way things were meant to be between them. Sorcerer though he might be, Merlin was _Arthur’s_ , and in his presence Arthur felt as if the ground were once more steady beneath his feet, the future no longer bleak but full of possibilities. 

 

Morgana had been right, though she might not know it yet: Camelot would rebuild, and with Merlin’s help the citadel would rise from the ashes, taller and stronger than ever before. Arthur would lift the ban on magic, and attacks like the one that had almost destroyed them would become less frequent, perhaps die out altogether, allowing Arthur to fashion a kingdom that was freer, safer, and more just than his father’s had ever been. 

 

After all, they had luck and love and a little bit of magic, and that was a pretty solid foundation right there. 


End file.
